Smoke Break - Nov 24 2023

 

Smoke Break

Nov 24 2023

They loiter

out in the cold

in unbuttoned overcoats

because it won't be long.

How to explain

the fellow feeling

of this odd collection of people

who only have in common

the dirty habit they share,

banished outdoors

to grab a smoke

and commiserate.

They day is grey

the wind bitter.

Grimy snow

surrounds the parking lot,

which is also grey

and filled with cars

no one's bothered to wash

in cold like this

with the roads such a mess.

They sip hot coffee

stomp their feet for warmth.

Trash-talk the boss,

dish some gossip,

watch the clock.

Feel a sense of belonging

after all this time together;

the familiar faces

and first names,

the vows to quit

and predictable fails.

Butts litter the walkway.

Soiled snow

has turned to slush

under salt-stained boots.

The tobacco smell lingers

long after they've returned

to their cramped office cubicles.

Where they work half-heartedly

along with those who stayed,

the clean-livers

and supercilious

who resent their absence

but keep it to themselves;

because they'd also like to take 5

whenever,

but have no excuse.

Who quietly envy

the smokers' privileged lives,

skipping out

on a crisp winter day

to share some laughs

and pass some time.

Who remind them of the big kids

back in school,

out at the practice field

under the bleachers

sneaking a butt

with their cool girlfriends.

Family Thanksgiving - Nov 23 2023

 

Family Thanksgiving

Nov 23 2023

The festive bird

makes its appearance

on occasions like this.

When the good dishes, and hoarded wine

are retrieved from where they've been hidden.

When the extensions are added

a white cloth is spread

candles are lit.

But standing apart,

the kiddie table

   —   which has folding legs,

mismatched chairs,

and a bad wobble

no one bothered to correct  —

has been left uncovered

and set with kitchen plates.

Where, as the youngest

I always sat,

impatient to graduate

to the adult table,

which was beautifully set

and where talk was serious

and the guests ate first.

Now, I think I'd prefer to sit with the kids,

joining in their banter

and innocent fun,

despite the indecorous manners

and eating last.

Because in this fractious time

the adult discussion

has turned into raised voices

flushed faces

sarcastic asides.

When someone will leave in a huff,

while the contrarian uncle

keeps interrupting

and guzzling wine.

Where is the gratitude

the day prescribes,

the humility

it takes to listen?

The stakes are too high, it seems,

and we take ourselves

too seriously.

Much better to feast

undo your belt

slump in your seat,

overstuffed

and a little drunk.

Much better

to tell off-colour jokes

while laughing at theirs.

Much better

to let your uncle rant

while smiling back indulgently.

Because no one cares what you believe

or think should be done,

no one who matters

will ever hear.

Gratitude

is more than enough.

Give thanks

stay humble

and pass the pumpkin pie,

then compliment the cook

and help clean-up.

Meanwhile, we kids are having fun;

kicking under the table

playing with mashed potatoes

telling bad jokes.

Like the one about the turkey

who the police arrested

'cuz they suspected fowl play.

It's U.S. Thanksgiving. So even though we're long past ours, the usual media are saturated with it. A time when they say 50% of Americans travel to visit their loved ones. (And the other 50% are travelling to be with their families! 🙃)

To All the Ships at Sea - Nov 20 2023

 

To All the Ships at Sea

Nov 20 2023

To think what I could have been.

Shepherd.

Lighthouse keeper.

Horse whisperer.

Nothing that changes the world.

My lot in life,

measured

by watching

    . . . waiting

        . . . taking care.

Not seen, and being seen.

Not moving and shaking.

Not making time.

Although the slow life

in a pastoral setting somewhere far away

is likely more idealized

than real,

the wishful thinking

of city people

who hate their jobs.

Because horses kick, butt, bite.

The light needs constant tending.

And we all know that rams

charged with testosterone

aren't at all the fluffy lambs

of fairy tales.

Then a greenskeeper, perhaps.

Kneeling down

in the morning dew

before the heat of the day,

eyeing the grass

and sniffing the soil,

scanning the sky for rain.

But now, all I can do is dim the lights

turn off the phone

and latch the office door.

Imagine lambs, gambolling

on a gentle green slope.

And a man

with a tall wooden stuff

trudging up behind.

Imagine a jet black horse

with fire in its eyes,

nostrils flaring

sweat glistening

tensing-up to bolt.

But instead, as I slowly reach out

consents to my touch;

dropping its head,

and ever so slightly

easing up.

Or imagine a far-off island

of exposed rock

and stunted trees.

And me

tending the garden

I've made for myself

on its only patch of soil.

Where the wind never lets up,

and a restless sea

breaks against the shore.

Where restive gulls

circle low,

squawking loudly

as if to protest

my very presence there.

And where a fog horn wails

its mournful sound

to all the ships at sea.

The Dogs Are Restless - Nov 19 2023

 

The Dogs Are Restless

Nov 19 2023

The dogs are restless tonight.

They must hear something I’m deaf to

rustling in the woods,

discern some subtle smell

I'm unable to sense,

as oblivious

as ultraviolet and infrared

are to human vision.

They've taught me just how much

I go out into the world

numb,

ears plugged

nose stuffed

eyes blinkered.

As if wrapped in cotton wool,

so even even touch

is not what it was

in a state of nature.

They inhabit this richly layered world

alive with possibility,

while mine is constricted

and mostly theoretical;

words

under artificial light

boxed in by walls.

And what could be more unnatural

than strictly ruled lines

and hard right angles,

recycled air?

Their ears prick

bodies stiffen

eyes light up.

I listen

as raptly as I can

but nothing comes.

Who knew

I've been missing so much;

smug

in my sense of certainty,

deluded

that the known world

had been fully mapped

measured

mastered.

Their excitement turns to frenzy

as they burst out

barking madly.

And I am left holding the door,

peering out

into the sterile air

of a cold dark night.

An expendable human,

not only bewildered

by whatever's lurking out there,

but hopeless in pursuit

and useless in the kill.

Nothing to See Here - Nov 19 2023

 

Nothing to See Here

Nov 19 2023

Sometimes, it's what isn't said

that's most telling.

Perhaps your silence is well-meant;

avoiding offence,

or sensible enough

to know you don't yet

know enough to say.

But more likely

it's to protect yourself.

Because when regrets don't count,

and intent

which is everything

doesn't even register,

they will surely second-guess

unfairly infer.

So you wisely refrain.

Edit, filter, suppress.

An opinion on everything,

yet you keep them to yourself.

Which isn't easy

in this cacophonous age

of loudmouths and self-promoters,

when sensation ratchets up

and attention is for sale.

When we're all self-appointed experts

on whatever it is,

oracles

and historians

and perfectly informed;

solipsists

obliged to share our wisdom

with the many loyal followers

waiting breathless to hear.

When we're expected to pronounce

on everything and anything

lest we be judged

   —  as if anyone really cares

or anything will change.

And when we've become so needy for approval

we feel compelled

to demonstrate our virtue

to a self-righteous world

talking back to itself.

And then, the conspiracies of silence

when we tacitly concur.

Like the naked emperor

or elephant in the room,

all of us

prudently pretending

nothing to see here.

Which is why I’m tempted

to read between the lines

fill in the silences.

Ignore

the anodyne statements

and empty bafflegab.

Because the truth

is somewhere in there.

Because what isn't said

more often than not

says so much more than words.

Mostly, a diatribe against social media.

In a wired age, when even sausage and jelly bean companies feel compelled to issue mushy pious statements about every news event; and when every nonentity with a social media account, informed or not, feels compelled to have an instant opinion for public consumption.

The trouble is, if you say nothing then everyone will read who-knows-what into your silence.

Of course, with my utterly hermetic life and no social media, I escape all this nonsense. I have strong opinions on most things. I like to think they're thoughtful and well-informed. But I'm humble enough to realize that what I think doesn't matter — actions, not words, are all that count. And, aside from that, I keep my opinions mostly to myself.

The poem was inspired by seeing how every individual and institution seemed to feel compelled to make some sort of public pronouncement about the Israel-Hamas war. And more proximately, how everyone is reading between the lines and reflecting their own bias in the latest speech by Trudeau; a speech that struck me as sensible, middle of the road, and uncontroversial. A forgettable speech should have mercifully slipped under the radar, as does most public speaking by congenitally risk averse politicians.

For me, the most important thing take from this poem is the line about intent. Because that's what's missing in the pile-on frenzy of “cancel culture”: intent really IS everything!

Physicists and Misfits - Nov 18 2023

 

Physicists and Misfits

Nov 18 2023

How did I not know

the secret to the tightrope

is a low centre of gravity;

that the heavy pole, flexing down

steadies the walker

and keeps him on.

So the force of gravity,

while pulling him off

also keeps him up.

This is like holding two contradictory ideas

in your head at once,

which it's said is a sign of intelligence.

The world is complicated that way,

but the alternative is to fall

into self-righteous certainty.

I envy circus people,

the acrobats and clowns,

strong man

and bearded lady,

lion tamer

and conjoined twins.

Who are not only physicists

who understand the centre of gravity,

but social misfits;

outsiders

who could have fallen badly,

yet found a home

and were taken in.

Celebrating difference

instead of fearing it.

But you only get one chance

on the high-wire

without a net.

Defying death

in front of small town crowds

under the big tent.

Where the world's fattest man

simply sits

weighing down his chair.

The knife thrower

pictures parabolic arcs.

And the levitating acrobat

appears effortless,

but is too high up

to see the sweat dripping down.

Rearview Mirror - Nov 17 2023

 

Rearview Mirror

Nov 17 2023

I did not inherit his skill

at telling stories.

How he relished

relating tales of his past,

suitably embellished, of course.

Stories of his prairie hometown.

First date with mom.

The war.

Of the stern dad

who believed in order

King and country

the value of money and work.

Who reigned at the head of the table,

and believed that children were not to speak

if not first spoken to.

Of the new secretary

who, smiling expectantly , brought coffee to his desk,

and how his old man disapproved

of such unheard of foolishness;

what nonsense is this,

a “coffee break”

in the middle of the day?!!

The story

about prairie winters

when winters were actually cold,

so flat-bottomed tires

froze lop-sided,

and you needed chains to drive.

To us, Winnipeg

was an almost mythological place,

far away

and not quite believable.

Back when long distance calls were big events,

and as we crowded around the single phone

with the long coiled cord

attached to wall,

my grandfather's stern voice

was a source of great excitement

for the few seconds

each of us had with him.

I had never seen my father display

such quiet deference.

But began to understand

how he both feared and admired

his own curmudgeonly dad.

That mine

who I thought strict and old fashioned

was really a softy at heart.

And how the sins of the father

come down to us,

story-tellers or not.

As for me, I have no one

to pass them on to.

The chain breaks.

The history is lost.

And the myth

is just a place on the map

where no one lives anymore.

Passed through

on the new ring road,

with nothing more than a backward glance

in the rearview mirror.

Comfort - Nov 16 2023

 

Comfort

Nov 16 2023

The bathroom faucets gleam.

Freshly laundered towels

are neatly stacked

fold out.

And the sheets have been pulled tight,

so when you slip in

between their stiffly starched whiteness

you feel pinned down,

as if held

against your will.

But the comforter,

which has been expertly spread

with a single sharp flick

   —  fluttering down

in a cloud of dust

on a pillow of air,

smells of smoke

stale sweat

animal sex.

You know it's never been washed,

and imagine the bodily fluids

that would glow under black light.

The nights of debauchery

hard liquor

and depressed men,

seeking comfort

far from home.

The newlyweds, on honeymoon,

already discomfited

by niggling regret.

The resentful man

alone in bed

comforting himself.

And the incontinent lust

of the young king and queen

on prom night,

which was either “Paris in Spring”

or “Under the Sea;

neither of whom are comfortable

with how things turned out.

So at the end of a fitful sleep

you leave the maid

a generous tip.

Who will neaten up

with practised efficiency,

the superficial clean

that does the job.

But not enough to remove

the whiff of desperation

that infuses the room,

the history

you can't expunge.

The comforter

that has witnessed all the comings and goings,

but does not judge

or leave exposed.

Dark Skies - Nov 15 2023

 

Dark Skies

Nov 15 2023

The sky here is dark.

It's unnerving to think

how far I've travelled

to find it;

absence

in a world obsessed by abundance,

and where we are uncomfortable

alone with ourselves.

Of all that we've lost

in our endless striving,

dark skies may be the least of it.

But when I lie on my back

looking up

at the star-filled heavens

reaching back through time,

I think of poetry

and dispossession;

where less is more

and absence clarifies.

The brilliant stars

sharper than I've ever seen,

and the blackness between them

too deep for words.

But there is no place for black

on the visible spectrum,

no dimension

of nothingness

I can truly comprehend.

The dark matter, and dark energy

they say fills the universe

must be black as this,

absence

perhaps as beautiful

as surfeit and excess.

What I cannot see,

yet still can't look away.

Turtle Crossing - Nov 15 2023

 

Turtle Crossing

Nov 15 2023

The turtle lumbers on its way

who knows where,

a vagabond

with its home on its back,

and the patience

of a long-lived creature.

It looks ancient

in its reptilian scales,

its weighty carapace

armour-plated

like a paleolithic tank.

Eats grass, and other greenery;

a vegan, chewing methodically,

who doesn't brag about virtue

or the planet's health;

just goes about living

its simple life

with humility and grace.

Yes, grace,

if its plodding deliberate ways

could be thought of as graceful;

no effort wasted,

and every move

true to its nature.

Instead of bloody

in tooth and claw,

behaves like Gandhi, and MLK;

a passive resistor

who hunkers down and waits.

Head retracts,

arms and legs

vanish into its shell.

A paragon of peace

with all the time in the world

keeping to itself.

My Private Island - Nov 14 2023

My Private Island

Nov 14 2023

The small island

in this lake of islands

large and small.

Of shifting sandbars

unmarked on any map.

Of submerged rocks

that lurk in the shallows,

and only appear

when the water's low.

The unwary and unwanted

would do well to keep out.

A rugged island

untouched by man,

except for the rudimentary shack

concealed in the trees.

A fortress

in its fresh-water moat,

a sanctuary

for me alone.

Not the private island

you'd imagine

the rich and famous having;

the glass-walled home

and landing pad,

the fancy yachts

in a tropical lagoon.

Just rock

and stunted trees,

waves

beating against its shores.

Harmless snakes

as well as rattlers,

clouds of biting insects

and deep winter snow.

An inhospitable place

in which I've made myself a home.

After dark

there are no lights

except my own,

so I'm alone

in my island fortress

of rock and stone.

Where I sit

on a windless night

at the end of the world,

listening to the waves

lap gently against

its impregnable shore.